


Let the Poets Pipe of Love in their Childish Ways

by merle_p



Series: Once a Gallagher [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Getting Back Together, Hopeful Ending, Injury Recovery, It's about time that Mickey learned some Russian, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mickey is born to be a pimp, Post-Season/Series 05, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Svetlana gets Mickey a job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4066405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sasha?" he shouts incredulously. "You brought me here to talk to Sasha?"<br/>Svetlana gives him a salacious smile, and Mickey stares.<br/>"Why the fuck would Sasha interview me? I’m not a goddamn hooker."<br/>"No one would pay for your puny ass anyway," she says haughtily and gets out of the car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Poets Pipe of Love in their Childish Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Niech poeci szczebiocą o miłości na swój dziecinny sposób](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027416) by [caraph3rn3lia_0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caraph3rn3lia_0/pseuds/caraph3rn3lia_0)



> Happens directly after Southside Blues, and quite some time before And I Ain't Seen the Sunshine. 
> 
> Spoilers for season 5. 
> 
> The title is a line from Cole Porter's song "Love for Sale"

The last person Mickey had expected to pick him up from the hospital the second time around is Svetlana. 

Well, if he's being completely honest, he hadn't really expected anyone to pick him up at all – he still isn't quite clear on why Lip had showed up the last time he was released, and Lip had just rolled his eyes at him in that obnoxious way of his when he'd come right out and asked. Mickey suspects that he might have felt guilty – because yes, Lip's brother had dumped Mickey and then his half-sister had shot him, all in one gloriously miserable day, and Lip seems like someone who thinks of his family's mistakes as his own. Mickey still remembers beating him up for something Ian had (or rather, hadn't) done to Mandy all those years ago, remembers how Lip had taken the fall for his brother, as if it was something he did all the time. 

But the Gallagher family's complicated history of sibling co-dependency doesn't exactly explain why Svetlana is here right now, helping him out of his hospital-issue wheelchair and into Kevin's truck, accompanied by a steady hand on his elbow and a constant stream of Russian swearwords. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asks, after she slams the passenger door shut and climbs into the driver's seat. 

She gives him a smile, the kind of smile that always makes him think of that documentary about alligators he had seen on the Discovery Channel once: icy, smug, and scary as fuck. 

"I come get my husband from hospital," she says innocently, and starts the engine. "Is what wives do, no?"

"Not the kind of wife that lives in someone else's house, has a muff-diving girlfriend and sucks cock for a living," he retorts, but there's not much heat behind the words. It's not like he doesn't appreciate not having to make his way home on foot. The doctor says his concussion is mostly gone, but he still gets headaches that make him see stars, his cracked ribs hurt like a bitch now that he's off the morphine, and the gunshot wound is still giving him trouble as well. Plus, adding insult to injury, he was sent to the hospital in his underwear and doesn't even have the cash for public transportation, much less a cab. 

So yes, he's still feeling like crap, and it's kind of nice not to have to worry about anything but trying to find a comfortable position in his seat, which turns out to be more difficult than it seems. That's probably why it takes him a while to realize that they are not actually headed to his place. 

"Where are we going?" he asks, and then frowns when Svetlana parks the truck in the deserted parking lot behind the abandoned supermarket. 

"Did you bring me here to kill me?" he asks suspiciously. He thinks it would kind of suck if she chose this moment to finally slit his throat, after everything he's survived, but it’s a subdued kind of annoyance rather than serious concern. It's not like he's been overly attached to his life these last few weeks. 

Svetlana puts the car in park and throws him a contemptuous look. "If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead." She smirks. "Many chances." 

He nods thoughtfully, because he cannot argue with her on that, then watches in confusion as she reaches behind her seat to pull out a white plastic bag. 

"Put these on," she says, and drops the bag into his lap. When he reaches inside, he discovers a pair of suit pants and one of the dress shirts he used to wear during his brief stint as head of a fake moving company. 

"What the fuck is this?" he asks. "Don't tell me you're taking me out for a fancy dinner or some shit."

She laughs at that, and the sound seems almost genuine. He thinks this might be the first time he remembers actually making her laugh. 

"If this goes well, you can buy me fancy dinner," she says. "But not today. Today you have job interview."

"A job interview?" he repeats incredulously, but Svetlana puts on the face that signals threat of castration and mutilation in case of disobedience, so he raises his hands in a gesture of resignation. 

"Whatever," he grumbles. "I hate to tell you though, I don't think I can get into these pants by myself."

She snorts, but she climbs out of the truck and comes around to the passenger door, then proceeds to help him into his clothes. It's awkward, but mostly because he's hanging halfway in the passenger seat and flinches every time he tries to twist his torso. He's sweaty and breathless by the time Svetlana buttons up his shirt and fixes his tie, and not in a good way either. When she gets back into the car and drives them three blocks down the road, he tries not throw up every time the truck hits a pothole and exhales in relief when she finally pulls into a back alley that looks vaguely familiar. 

At least until he realizes where he knows this corner of the city from. 

"Sasha?" he shouts incredulously. "You brought me here to talk to Sasha?" 

Svetlana gives him a salacious smile, and Mickey stares. 

"Why the fuck would Sasha interview me? I’m not a goddamn hooker."

"No one would pay for your puny ass anyway," she says haughtily and gets out of the car. Mickey kind of wants to tells her about the night at the Fairy Tail, when the guy in the fancy-ass car drove up to the curb and offered to pay Mickey for a ride around the block, just to prove her wrong. But the memory of that night is wrapped up in all kinds of memories about Ian, and that's not something he wants to think about right now, not when he just got to the point where he would have been mildly pissed rather than grateful if Svetlana had really tried to gut him with a screwdriver in an abandoned parking lot. So Mickey keeps his mouth shut and trails after her, trying not to limp too obviously as he climbs the stairs. 

 

Sasha wears fishnet tights with black 6-inch heels, and smokes perfumed cigarettes. She offers the package to Mickey with challenge in her eyes, and Mickey takes one just to annoy her, even though the sickly-sweet smell makes him gag. 

"So, you got me," Mickey says, and tries to sit in his chair in a way that doesn't make him look like he's about to keel over. "Care to explain what the fuck I'm doing here?"

Sasha raises her brows and blows a cloud of smoke at his face. 

"Svetlana tells me you took care of the customer who beat one of the girls at your salon," she says. 

Mickey thinks 'salon' is a bit of a euphemism for the seedy rub-and-tug he and Kevin had been running out of the upstairs room at the Alibi, but he's not going to argue with her. He merely shrugs and keeps the cigarette as far away from his face as he can. 

"What, you got a problem with me handling that?" he asks. "I wasn't going to let some asshole screw over one of my girls."

She only smiles mysteriously in reply. 

"My security man was found dead in an alley last week," she finally says casually, as if she's just making small talk. 

"Oh yeah?" Mickey says, and wonders where this is going. "How'd he die?"

She takes a drag from her god-awful cigarette. "He got his throat slit," she drawls. "And his penis cut off."

"Ouch," Mickey says, because shit, man, that's got to hurt. "So what do you want me to say here? Sorry for your loss?"

She snorts. "Was no loss," she says, and her voice turns low, dangerous. "He raped one of my girls and tried to blame it on customer." She smiles, sharply. "Whoever did this did me a favor."

Mickey raises his brows. He's got the distinct impression that Sasha is patting herself on the shoulder here, but whatever, he's not going to tell her how to run her business. He tried that once, and look how that turned out in the long run.

"Okay, so what is this about?" he asks instead, and can't help feeling a bit impatient. His head is killing him, and sitting up straight takes more and more of an effort. He's not going to be able to play it cool for much longer. "If you are trying to threaten me, you're wasting your time, Lady Pimp. I'm not going to touch your hookers."

"I know that," she says mildly, "that's why you are here." She stubs out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and throws her hair back over her shoulder. 

"I need new head of security," she says. She pauses for a moment. "Maybe I also need partner."

"What'd you want a partner for?" he asks, and thinks of Kevin forcing him at gunpoint to give up his cash. Partners, he thinks, are more of a hassle than they are worth. "You seem to be doing just fine on your own."

"I have had problems with customers lately," she says, and her face is blank, but Mickey can see that she isn't happy. "Americans have no respect for women. They know what I am, they think they can take from me what they want. They do not always listen to me. You are man," she says, even though her gaze shows that she thinks that might be debatable. "And you have connections. People listen to you."

"Because they know I'll knock their teeth out if they don't," Mickey says, out of habit, and Sasha waves him off impatiently, as if to say that she does not have time for his bullshit. 

"Do you want job, yes or no?"

Mickey stares. "You are offering me the job?"

"What do you think you are here for, little man?" she asks, drumming her manicured finger nails against the table in a staccato rhythm. 

"No offense, Mother Russia, but don't you have an army of Ivans to recruit from?"

She looks at him like she's offended he'd even ask. "They are idiots," she says, with contempt. "They think with their fists, and their dicks. I do not trust them."

Mickey raises his brows. "But you trust me? You do remember that one time two years ago, when I stole all your whores?"

She waves it off, as if it's a minor detail. "I trust you not to molest my girls," she says. "I trust that you have sense of business." She reaches for another cigarette. "I trust you to be loyal."

Mickey thinks she might be giving him way too much credit here, when he's interrupted by someone opening the door. It's not Svetlana, but a guy he's never seen before: skinny, dark-eyed, face like a girl. The guy sees Mickey and gives him an once-over as if he's a particularly juicy steak. 

"Hello there," the guy says, and Mickey uncomfortably shifts in his seat. 

"Hi," he says curtly, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Sasha smirk.

"Boss," the guy says, "the Serbians are here. They want to talk."

"Thank you, Hien," Sasha says with a sigh, "give me one minute. I will be there soon." 

The boy gives Sasha a nod, and Mickey a wink, then he retreats and closes the door behind him. 

Mickey raises his brows at Sasha, and she shrugs with a downright dirty smile.

"We are expanding," she says. "Offering additional services."

Mickey scoffs. "Yeah, how many Southside thugs walk in here admitting they want some chink twink tugging their cock?"

"You'd be surprised," she says lightly. "Also, he's Vietnamese." She grins. "I think he likes you."

To his horror, Mickey finds himself flushing. "So what," he grunts, if only to change the topic. "We got a deal here, or what?"

 

After he and Sasha have shaken hands on their business agreement – the kind of handshake that's more binding than a piece of paper in this part of town – Svetlana drives him back to the house. She's silent, and he doesn't know what to say to her, doesn't know how to thank her for giving him something to live for, doesn't know why she decided to help him in the first place. 

"Guess with that kind of paycheck, we can buy some fancy-ass stroller for Yev or some shit," he finally says, and when Svetlana smiles at him, actually smiles, without bitterness or resentment, he knows that for once, he actually said the right thing. 

She leaves the engine running while he clumsily climbs out of the car, clutching the pharmacy plastic bag with his medication in one hand. He looks between her and the house, sitting dark and silent at the corner of the street, and feels a rush of panic at the idea of going inside, of being alone. 

"Could –" he asks, breaks off, coughs, starts again. "Could you bring the kid around sometime, maybe?" 

She raises her brows, and looks like she's about to ask a question. He knows that if she asks, he is going to run, and she must see it in his face, too, because in the end, she simply nods and shrugs. 

"You can watch baby tomorrow," she says. "I go shopping with Nika. We come at ten."

"Thank you," he replies, before he can talk himself out of saying it, and then watches her tail lights disappear down the street. 

 

He doesn't turn on the lights. It's not quite dark yet outside, but getting there, so he just sits on the couch and watches a ray of sunlight wander across the living room floor, weaker and smaller with every minute that ticks by. He breathes. Breathes in, out, in, out, feels for the way his ribs sting with every inhale, every exhale. He almost welcomes the pain, because it reminds him that breathing is life, and life hurts. 

He doesn't know how long he has been sitting when someone knocks on the front door. It must have been a while, because in the meantime, it's gotten entirely dark outside. 

"Door's open," he yells, and then groans when his ribcage protests at the movement. He hears the door creak, the shuffle of feet, and then Debbie Gallagher's voice:

"Mickey, are you alive?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" he grunts, and then blinks when the light in the room suddenly switches on. 

"What kind of stupid person just sits in the dark?" Debbie retorts. She's standing in the doorway, holding what looks like a casserole dish, and behind her, Fiona waves awkwardly with a hand that's carrying a heavy grocery bag. There was a time when he would have pinched himself at this point, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. It probably says a lot about the recent turn his life has taken that he's not even surprised anymore at the sight. 

"Fuck off," he grunts, half-heartedly, but of course they take that as an invitation to walk further into the room. 

"Wow, I like what you've done with the place," Fiona says sarcastically, and Mickey wants to flip her off, wants to tell her that it's not so bad (and really, it's been so much worse), but the words die on his tongue when he remembers that the last time Fiona was around, it was shortly after Ian had come down from a manic phase, and the house had still shown the results of his hyperactive cleaning sprees. 

"No one forces you to be here," he bites out instead, and Fiona raises a brow. 

"Actually, they do," she says casually, and starts moving things around on the dining table. 

"Oh yeah, what, did aliens make you do it?"

"No," Fiona says, sounding only mildly annoyed, and he cannot believe that she actually bothers with a serious answer to that question. "Debbie asked me to," she says. "Oh, and Lip. Mostly Ian, actually," she adds, and pretends not to notice how Mickey freezes at the mention of Ian's name as she pulls a stack of paper plates from the plastic bag. "Liam didn't say anything," she continues, "but he gave me this look that I'm pretty sure meant: If you don't make sure the guy actually eats properly this time, I'm going to smack you in the shin with my toy truck." 

Mickey snorts, and Fiona shrugs innocently. "What?" she says. "It's a pretty terrifying look."

They make him sit down at the table, and suddenly things are awkward – because there is no universe in which Mickey Milkovich sitting down with Fiona and Debbie Gallagher for a civilized dinner wouldn't be weird – but in the end, it's not so bad. Mickey picks at his food (some kind of mac'n'cheese-vegetable-casserole thing or some shit that's pretty tasty once he gets used to the combination) and half-listens to Debbie chat about some girl at school who's going to feel sorry for ever touching her special sparkly pen. He thinks back to the week after the shooting, the days he whiled away in a haze of Oxycodone and heartbreak, the hours he spent thinking about all the ways to finally get it over with and kill himself, and he realizes with a jolt that he doesn't think he can go back to that, even if it means making uncomfortable small talk with Ian's sisters over broccoli and cheese. 

"Carl says hi, by the way," Debbie says conversationally when the girls start collecting their stuff and set out to leave. "I think he's pissed that he missed out on the shooting and all the drama afterwards." She drops the used paper plates on top of an already overflowing trash bag and smirks. "He also says that if they ever let Sammi out of prison, he volunteers to help you hide the body."

"Debbie!" Fiona protests. "No one is going to hide any more bodies, you hear me? Digging up Aunt Ginger in the backyard was bad enough." She throws Mickey a threatening glare. "That goes for you too."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, just to annoy her, and she rolls her eyes at him in a demonstratively exasperated way. It feels almost comfortable, at least until she turns serious, her full lips now a narrow line under a set of concerned eyes. 

"Ian wants to talk to you," she says quietly. She is chewing on her thumb nail nervously, so the words come out a bit mangled, but Mickey can still hear her loud and clear. "He wasn't sure – you know, what with you throwing yourself off the front porch last time he came to see you. Anyway, I told him I'd ask you about it. "

She drops her hand and start biting her lower lip instead. Debbie awkwardly shifts from one foot to another, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

Mickey allows himself to close his eyes for a second, and clenches his jaw. 

"Maybe," he finally says, and from the way the tension drains out of the girls, he realizes they must have expected so much worse. Somehow, that's what helps him make up his mind. 

"I'll talk to him, okay?" he says. "But not right now. Maybe in a couple weeks. I need to figure out some shit first." He can't really look at them, his gaze trailing over the clutter in the living room without seeing anything, and so it takes him completely by surprise when Debbie is suddenly on him, her arms around his chest. 

"Ouch, fuck," he yelps, because her hug is murder on his ribs, and she pulls away hurriedly, as suddenly as she'd pounced. 

"Sorry, sorry," she says, but she's smiling all the same, and Fiona throws him an odd look over the top of Debbie's head. 

"Thank you," she mouths, without making any sound. It's as if she knows that Mickey is not ready to hear those words out loud just yet. 

 

He wakes up early the next morning with a feeling of panic clawing at his chest, the sense that he's forgotten something important but doesn't know what it is. Then he remembers that Svetlana is bringing the kid over today, and he falls back into the pillows with a groan, equal parts relief, soreness, and trepidation. 

His phone tells him that it's barely past six, so he has plenty of time, but he doubts he'll be able to go back to sleep, and staying in bed is just going to make him think about things he'd rather not think about, so he gets up and forces himself into the shower. 

He'd showered at the hospital, with the help of a nurse who had been efficient and clinical and had mercifully ignored both his glowering stare and his half-hearted hard-on as he'd rinsed him down. Climbing into his own tub is a lot more difficult and painful, but he relishes the feeling of hot water running over his shoulders without having to worry about anyone staring at his junk. He's careful not to irritate the shotgun wound with the towel, even though the doctor re-did the stitches and it seems to be healing okay, and tries to work around the twinge in his ribs as he pulls on a pair of khakis and a rumpled t-shirt that smells mostly clean. 

He has a desperate craving for coffee, so he lights the lonely, pathetic cigarette he found on the floor next to his bed last night, and ventures into the kitchen. In the light of day, the place does look a bit like a nuclear bomb has detonated in the living room. He remembers Fiona commenting on the state of the house the night before, and thinks about his son, who somehow manages to always look weirdly fresh and clean, even when he's just in the process of shitting his diapers. 

He starts with rinsing out the coffeepot, since he wanted coffee anyway, and then goes from there. He finds black trash bags in one of the kitchen drawers and starts emptying ashtrays all over the room. He does not think about the fact that Ian probably bought the roll of trash bags at some point last year, focuses instead on collecting the empty beer cans on the couch and the dirty paper napkins underneath the coffee table. He finds Mandy's beanie under a stack of old newspapers and smashes a plate in the sink in hot-white rage, because it's either that or crying, and he thinks he's done quite enough of the latter lately. Then he starts picking up the shards, somehow managing not to cut himself on the edges, and runs water over the stack of dirty dishes that are covered in dried-up coffee grounds, food scraps, and vomit. 

When Svetlana walks in with the kid on her arm and Nika in tow, he's busy drying off halfway-clean dishes with a stained bathroom towel, and stacking them on the kitchen table. 

"You clean?" she says, sounding disbelieving and suspicious. "Is orange boy back?"

Mickey barely manages to catch the mug he's drying before it slips out of his hands. He's already lost one perfectly fine plate to loss and heartbreak today; that seems enough broken china for one day.

"No," he says sharply, and sets the mug down harder than is strictly necessary. "No," he repeats, choking on the word when Svetlana raises her brows, "he is not – what, you got a problem with me not wanting my son to grow up in a total dump?"

He stands there in the middle of his shitty, ugly kitchen, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides, and Svetlana must see something in his eyes, because she doesn't push. 

"No problem," she says and comes forward to press the boy into his arms. The kid squeals and wraps his fat little arms around Mickey's neck. God knows why the child is so attached to him. 

"We come get him at three," she says, and sets a tote bag full of baby equipment on the couch. 

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey says, distracted by the way Yevgeny keeps blowing wet raspberries against his neck. "Can I –" he says when they are almost out the door, and Svetlana turns around, expectantly. "Can I take him outside for a while?'

She gives him a look that seems utterly unimpressed, but somehow still gives him the feeling that she's actually kind of pleased. 

"He is your son," she says. "You do not need permission."

“You hear that, little fucker,” he says, once he is certain that Svetlana has actually left. “You are my son, and we can do whatever we want.”

“Da,” Yevgeny says seriously, and blows a spit bubble at his face. 

 

He runs into Ian once in the weeks that follow. It's too soon, it's far too soon, and only much later he realizes that by all means, he should have seen him around the neighborhood before. He wonders if Ian's been hiding from him, and doesn't quite know how that makes him feel. 

That day, he only sees Ian because he does in fact decide to take Svetlana out for lunch – half a thank-you meal for getting him a job, half part of his recent clumsy attempts to establish some kind of bond with the mother of his son, even if it comes far too late. It's only Patsy's Pies, not the fancy dinner they were talking about, but he thinks that this works better for them anyway, a place where no one gives them funny looks for not fitting in, and no one complains when Yevgeny starts covering himself in barbecue sauce. Fiona promises free pie (which he knows she'll have taken off her paycheck), Svetlana half-smiles as she works her way through her strawberry milkshake, and for a moment, he almost feels like he's accomplished something, like there is a chance that for once, he actually did something right. 

That's when the door to the kitchen swings open, and Ian walks in, carrying a rack full of steaming dishes. He pauses in his tracks, staring at Mickey with a look on his face that Mickey can't remember ever seeing before, and Mickey feels himself go hot and cold and curses himself for forgetting that yes, by the way, Ian works here, too. 

"Fuck," he mumbles and carefully sets a half-eaten fry back onto his plate. 

"What?" Svetlana asks, her smile fading, her eyes alert, and she twists around in her seat to see what he's looking at. 

"Oh," she makes and stares at Ian. Mickey cannot see her face, but he does see Ian's eyes widen and then dart away, as if he cannot stand to see whatever it is she is telling him without words. 

Then Fiona walks out from behind the counter and stills, her head moving back and forth between Ian and Mickey, her knuckles white around the notepad in her hand, and Mickey thinks about how hilarious this all could be if only it happened to somebody else. 

Svetlana turns back around in a deliberate movement and gives him a calculating stare. "I think I want another shake," she says primly, as if she hadn't just stared down her husband's ex-boyfriend with his sister watching the whole thing, and he can't help but gape disbelievingly. 

"Where the hell are you even putting all that food?" he asks, and she raises her brows, daring him to question her. 

"Fast metabolism," she says lightly, and taps a finger against her empty glass meaningfully. 

The movement distracts him for a moment, and when Mickey looks up and over her shoulder again, Ian is gone, and Fiona is taking orders at a table with a family of four, and he thinks he might almost be able to convince himself that he's imagined the whole thing. 

Only Mickey's treacherous heart is still beating too fast, and Svetlana is halfway through her second milkshake by the time it finally agrees to slow down. 

 

The first week he works for Sasha, she shows him the books – the official ones they keep for the police and the IRS, and the other ones they keep under the table. 

"I thought you hired me to break people's noses," he mutters, when she has him go through the different columns and watches him slowly calculate numbers with sharp eyes. "Not to do fucking math. Should have hired Lip Gallagher if you wanted someone who actually graduated high school."

She simply looks at him, unimpressed and slightly amused, and blows more of that fucking perfumed cigarette smoke right in his face. 

"Don't sell yourself short," she says. "And don't worry, you will get to break noses soon enough."

In the end, he does not break any noses, but he does get to kick someone in the balls for conveniently forgetting to pay before the week is over, so he thinks he can't really complain, even though he needs to sit and breathe through his nose as he holds his ribs for half an hour afterwards. 

He learns how to document their revenue and their expenses, learns the names of the hookers and how to say "go fuck yourself" in Russian, learns which cops take bribes and which are paid off in trade (so to speak), and stocks up on brass knuckles and tire irons. 

"How's pimp school going?" Lip asks him when he comes over late one night, bag of weed dangling from his fingers. They sit on the broken fire escape behind the house with a couple of Buds, passing a joint back and forth, and stare up into the sky. 

Mickey grins and snatches the joint from Lip's hand over his token protest. "It's alright," he shrugs. "Tits everywhere," he says, "and most of them don't speak a word of English, so no one expects me to actually listen to what they say." 

Lip looks a bit envious at the description, which is pretty much why Mickey said it in the first place, and rolls another joint when it becomes clear that Mickey's not giving this one up. 

"And how's rich kids school going?" Mickey asks, and Lip shrugs. 

"Still kicking my ass," he says, "but I'm finally starting to kick back."

"Yeah, good for you," Mickey says, and takes a gulp from his too-warm beer. "Fucking hipsters gotta learn who they're dealing with, right?"

Lip snorts, and opens another beer with his teeth. He does not mention Ian at all, so Mickey returns the favor and doesn't mention Mandy either. 

 

His ribs heal. Kicking the shit out of someone doesn't make him have to catch his breath anymore, and he can carry Yevgeny on his hip during a walk around the block without feeling like he's about to fall apart. 

He argues with Sasha about buying new sheets for the massage tables, and whether they can trust the Serbians or not. He mocks Hien for getting Chinese takeout from the place down the block, but keeps stealing his spring rolls anyway. He starts having shots of vodka with some of the regulars he doesn't entirely hate, just to make sure they know he takes this business seriously, just to make sure they come back. They always do.

Lip comes over with pot some nights, when he needs to get out of the house and his hot professor is busy fucking her boring shriveled-up husband, and Mickey stops pretending that he minds. They get high, and sometimes they talk about nothing of importance, and sometimes they are silent, and Mickey usually sleeps pretty well on those nights. 

Svetlana brings him Yevgeny once a week, and sometimes, he goes over to Kevin's and they keep one eye on his son and the twins while watching a football game with the other. When Veronica comes home from the bar and finds them sprawling on the couch, surrounded by cigarette butts and beer cans, she doesn't frown anymore, just sighs and kisses Kevin's head, tousles Mickey's hair in the way she knows he hates, and says: "You crashing on the couch tonight, Mickey?" as if she isn't expecting anything else. 

And one morning, Mickey wakes up on V's couch, with a crick in his neck and the imprint of a baby toy on the back of his thigh. Svetlana is drinking coffee in the chair across the room, her wet hair covered by a towel, and someone is frying eggs in the kitchen, and Mickey realizes that he has a life, a life that doesn’t revolve around Ian anymore, and suddenly he can't remember how to breathe. 

That night, he breaks out the gin and turns off his phone, and drinks until he passes out, even though he doesn't quite know what exactly he's mourning. 

 

The next morning, he has three missed calls from Mandy, and two from Iggy, that fucking deserter, and he erases them all without listening to his voicemail. At work, Sasha throws him calculating looks, as if she knows exactly what’s going on, but she doesn't say anything, and Mickey thinks he can get away without having to explain, until Hien comes to find him in the backroom during the slow afternoon hours, where he's stacking dollar bills into neat little piles. 

"Sasha wants you to come upstairs," he says with a smile, and Mickey grunts and locks up the money and follows Hien up the stairs, because if Sasha calls for him, she's usually got a reason. Except Hien doesn't take him to Sasha's room, but leads him down the narrow hallway to his own, the smallest bedroom on the floor that might have been a nursery at some point, judging from the jungle-themed wallpaper that threatens to emerge from underneath layers of lead-based dirty-white paint. 

"Lie down," the boy says, gesturing at the massage table set up alongside the wall, and Mickey feels the hair in his neck stand on end. 

"What?" he snarls, "what do you –" 

Hien rolls his eyes at him and doesn't back down. "Sasha thinks you need to relax," he says. "You are tense," he says and dares to put a hand on Mickey's shoulder to prove his point. Mickey has to dig his finger nails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from punching him in the face. Hien's pretty mouth is his most important asset, Sasha is going to be pissed if Mickey messes it up. 

"What does she care?" he grunts, and takes a step back, but Hien follows, and his hand still rests in the curve of Mickey's neck, steady and warm.

"You are distracted," Hien says, as if it's obvious, and laughs a little. "Bad for business."

"I can do my job," Mickey hisses, and finally forces himself to slap Hien's hand away. "I'm not going to screw up."

"No one says you are," Hien says, as if he's trying to calm down a shying horse, and then he says, more quietly: "Mickey. Just let me take care of you."

Mickey can't look at him. He feels trapped in this tiny cramped room, his chest hurts in a way that has nothing to do with his bruised ribs. 

"I can't –" he says, his voice strangled, and Hien sighs. 

"It's just a massage," he says. "I'm not – I know you are practically married anyway."

Mickey draws a ragged breath, runs a hand through his hair. "Svetlana's got nothing to do with this," he says angrily, and Hien smiles, as if he knows something Mickey doesn't. 

"I wasn't talking about Svetlana," he says, his voice gentle. 

Mickey looks at him then, his stance demonstratively non-threatening, hands raised in surrender, his smile still in place, and some part of Mickey collapses under the weight of his grief, gives in, gives up. 

"Just a massage," he says gruffly, his eyes flitting away, and starts to unbutton his shirt. 

 

For about ten minutes afterwards, Mickey actually feels better. The heavy weight on his shoulders has shaken loose just a little, the constant pressure on his heart is just a tiny bit less suffocating, breathing seems to come easier now. 

It's not just a massage, in the end, but it's also not much more. Hien puts his mouth to Mickey's balls while jerking him off with one steady hand, and when it's over, he dabs him clean with a warm, soft cloth, and does not try to touch him while Mickey gets dressed. 

"Thanks," Mickey grunts awkwardly before he opens the door, because he doesn't know what else to say, but Hien only winks and smiles and says, like he means it: "Anytime." 

And then Mickey heads back downstairs, and finds Svetlana sitting in the visitor's chair in Sasha's backroom, one leg folded over the other, cigarette dangling from her fingers like a natural extension of her hand. 

For a harsh, cruel moment, he actually feels a wave of guilt rolling over him, until he realizes with a strange, dizzying rush that there's nothing to feel guilty about – the days when Svetlana cared whom he was fucking are long past, and who else is there to give a damn? Then he takes in her stony-faced expression, the tight set to her mouth, and he feels a pang of panic for an entirely different reason. 

"Yev?" he asks, because why else would she be here, and he clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking. 

She shakes her head quickly, but she is not looking him in the eye as she stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the desk.

"Terry," she finally says, and her voice is flat. "He has parole hearing next month."

"Already?" Mickey asks, because Jesus, this country is so eager to lock up anyone who looks at a police officer the wrong way for the rest of their lives, but they don't seem able to contain the one person who'd single-handedly make the world a better place if he was behind bars for good. 

She shrugs, and reaches for another cigarette before offering the pack to Mickey. 

"Has been 18 months," she says, and flicks the lighter for him. 

"Where did you even hear about this?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes as she exhales smoke through her nostrils, like a dangerously beautiful fire-breathing dragon. 

"He called me," she says, and Mickey groans, because of course he did. "He wants money for lawyer," she adds wryly, and then: "He still wants to kill you."

Mickey is not surprised, nor does he feel hurt, he tells himself firmly as he shrugs and lifts the cigarette to his mouth. If he misses his lips on the first try, has to focus on keeping his hand steady when he repeats the movement, it doesn't mean anything at all. 

"Are you going to help him?" he asks, his voice challenging and sharp. "You waiting for him to get out so you can fuck him again?" He sounds meaner than he needs to, and the way Svetlana's shoulders' hitch up just the tiniest bit tells him that she heard it too, but he still remembers the way they used to gang up on him, all sneering contempt for the size of his cock, the size of his brain, for his overall lack of masculinity, and it makes something ugly knot up tight in his guts. 

Svetlana opens her mouth, but her answer is postponed when one of the whores – Ilona, the mousy one with the giant hooters – shoulders the door open, one mug in each hand. One of them she hands to Svetlana with a gentle smile and a few words murmured in Russian, the other one she offers to Mickey with a smirk and a wink. 

"Coffee," she says with a hint of exasperation when he simply stares at her, and that shakes him out of his stupor. 

"Спасибо," he thanks her, and this time, her smile is quick, but real. 

"No problem," she says, her accent heavy, and shuts the door when she leaves. 

Mickey stares down at his steaming coffee, feeling lost and out of balance. Svetlana raises the mug to her mouth and swallows, then she sets the coffee down on the desk and sighs. 

"I do not want to help him," she says, and her voice is firm and steady. "He is not man I thought he was."

"Yeah?" Mickey says, and he has to fight to keep the distrust out of his voice. "How's that?"

Svetlana shrugs. "I do what is best for my child," she says. "This man would kill his own son. Maybe one day, he would kill his grandson too. I do not want to risk my child's life." She raises her brows and looks straight at him. "And I want my son to know his father."

Mickey stares and cannot think of anything to say. For a moment, they are quiet, looking at each other over the distance of Sasha's backroom and the wafts of cigarette smoke, and he thinks that maybe in a different life, in a life where she liked dick a little bit more and he liked it a little bit less, in a life where they didn't meet when his father paid her to rape him in front of his lover, they actually could have worked. 

Eventually, he nods. "If you tell the judge what you just told me, they might not let him go," he says, and her eyes widen the tiniest bit when she realizes what he's suggesting. 

"They will ask why he wants you dead," she says, and then, as if it needs to be said: "I will not go back to Russia."

Mickey frowns, and wonders if she would still be married to him if she realized she didn't have to be. He wonders why he hasn't brought it up before. He wonders why the thought of divorce is not quite as appealing as it should be anymore. 

"Your son is an American citizen," he points out. "They won't make you leave."

She gives him a look from narrowed eyes, calculating and pensive. Eventually she tilts her head and nods decisively. 

"I will think about it," she says and gets up from her chair. On her way out the door, she shocks him by putting a hand on his arm, a fleeting touch. 

"He will not hurt you again," she says, and then she is gone, leaving behind the scent of cigarettes, burnt coffee and heavy perfume. 

 

Then sun is setting when he finally gets home, and there is someone sitting on the front stoop of his house when he turns onto the street. It takes him far too long to recognize the familiar plaid shirt and the orange hair, and he pauses in his tracks, but he's already too close to turn around and hide, and Ian chooses this moment to raise his head and stare at him with a tired expression that somehow manages to look both hopeful and resigned. 

For a moment, Mickey feels guilty, because he knows he told Fiona he'd be in touch when he was ready, and then the guilt makes room for anger, because he said he'd be in touch _when he was ready_. He doesn't feel ready now, and Ian must see that in his face, because he shifts against the step he's sitting on, looking like he can't quite decide whether to get up or not.

The whole thing is like one giant déjà-vu, far too similar to the last time they were face to face like this, except it was the Gallaghers' front porch Ian was sitting on, Mickey showing up with a heart full of hope and love, just to see it dropped like a hot potato, not worth a second look as it tumbled into the dirt. 

"What are you doing here?" Mickey says, voice rough, and Ian pulls his shoulders up to his ears. 

"I heard the news about Terry," he says, as if that explains everything, when really, it only leaves Mickey with more questions. 

"How did you find out about that?" he asks, and wonders if everyone has heard, if Ian found out before he did, if he was the last one to know, like the fucking stupid fool he feels. 

"Kev," Ian says, apologetically. "He was there when Svetlana got the call." He rubs his palms against his jeans and gives Mickey a faint smile. "I wanted to see if you are okay."

Mickey shrugs, because what the hell is he supposed to do with that, and firmly refuses to feel anything at the thought of Ian worrying about how he's doing. It's not quite fair, he knows, because Ian's been to see him before, because Ian visited him at the hospital, because Ian's got his own share of baggage, and yet – the idea of allowing himself to care about Ian again somehow seems more terrifying than the prospect of facing down his father. 

"Maybe they won't let him go," Ian says hesitantly, when he realizes that Mickey's got nothing to say. 

"Maybe," Mickey shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his pants. He doesn't say _You are the reason he wants to kill me._ He doesn't say _Remember the night when they took him away, and you kissed me with my blood on your lips and your blood on my tongue, and it felt like forever?_

"Look, I'm sorry," Ian says pleadingly, and Mickey lets himself look for real, at last. Ian seems better, less pale, less withdrawn than Mickey remembers, but there is a new weariness to him as well, in the way he holds himself, in the way he moves. 

"I know you aren't ready to talk. I just –" He breaks off, helplessly, and this is wrong, Mickey thinks: Ian was never at a loss for words, not even when his mind was in shambles – even at his worst, he was still better at talking than Mickey could ever hope to be. 

"What do you want?" he asks, and it's not meant to be cruel, but Ian flinches into a shrug, and looks down at his hands unhappily. 

"I want to take back what I said to you," he says quietly, and does not look up from his lap. "I want to know that we've got another chance. I want to feel like myself again. I don't want to be like Monica." 

He looks up at Mickey, defeated, and Mickey releases the breath he's been holding for too long. He sits down on the stairs next to Ian, slowly, heavily, careful to leave enough space between them, careful to not let himself touch. 

Mickey wants things too, he thinks, as he stares straight ahead so that he doesn't need to look at Ian. He never wants to see his father again, he wants his son to grow up happier than his parents did, he wants to start making up for some of the things he's fucked up in his life. He wants to reach out and wrap his arm around Ian's shoulders, wants to press a kiss against the top of his head like he used to, wants to tell him that things are going to be okay. 

Instead, he keeps his hands twisted together in his lap, and his gaze trained on his hands. He keeps his distance. 

"Are you taking your meds?" he finally asks, and senses Ian turning toward him at the question. 

"Yes," Ian says, and it doesn't sound like a lie. "Yes, I've been taking them the whole time."

"Do they help?" Mickey asks, and Ian shrugs. 

"Fiona and Lip seem to think so," he says dryly, but it doesn't come out quite as sarcastically as he seems to be aiming for. 

"And you?" he asks. Ian pulls a face and makes a so-so gesture with one hand. 

"Kind of," he says. "My head is a much calmer place these days." He sighs, looks down. "Most of the time that's okay. Sometimes I miss … I don't know. The days when everything felt bright and interesting and – more."

"Hm," is all Mickey says, because what he cannot say is how much Ian's highs had fascinated him, how much they'd scared him – Ian bubbly and sparkling, overwhelming, like a rollercoaster ride on a sugar high, and Mickey trying to keep up in vain, heart beating too fast, out of breath, always a step behind. 

"What about therapy?" he asks instead, and Ian snorts. 

"Can't afford therapy," he says, and then, more reluctantly: "Fiona wants me to join a support group, but – I don't know what good that's gonna do."

"Why not?" Mickey asks, and Ian shrugs. 

"What would I have to say to these people?"

"You should go," Mickey says, and still does not look at Ian as he speaks. 

"Why?" Ian asks, and there is a hint of stubbornness in his tone now that Mickey remembers so well, from all their fights about doctors and medication and therapists – toned down, now, it's true, but it still sparks an unpleasant twinge in his chest. 

"Because you need all the fucking help you can get," he says sharply, finally looking at him, and Ian shrinks away from him, eyes wide. 

Mickey takes a deep breath. "If you want us to have a second chance, you need to work on getting better first. And that means you need go to this fucking group if Fiona thinks it's going to help you."

Ian laughs, a small, bitter sound. "Even if I get better, I'm always going to have bad days, Mickey. I'm not always going to be well. If that's what you're waiting for, you might as well forget about it now."

"I know that," Mickey hisses. "Jesus Christ, you think I don't know? After everything we've – this is not about fixing you. But this thing where I show you my belly just for you to turn around and stab me in the guts? I can't do that again. So I need to know that you care about being well, that you are fucking working on it. I'll help you, if I can, but you've got to fucking try. Don't do it for me, if you don't want to, for Christ's sake, but at least for your family. They worry about you."

Ian's eyes are serious, but he actually chuckles at that, tired and disbelieving. "I still can't believe you actually hang out with my siblings," he says. "How the fuck did that happen?"

Mickey raises his brows. "I have no fucking clue," he says, and he's not even really joking. "It's not my fault, they just keep stalking me. Must be that I'm just that irresistible."

"Yes," Ian says, and he doesn't sound like he's joking either. "That must be it." For a moment, the air between them becomes charged, and Mickey feels his heartbeat pick up, then Ian's shoulders slump and he looks up at Mickey from underneath half-lowered lashes. 

"So when will I be well enough for you to think about giving us another chance?" he asks helplessly. "How will you know? How will I know?" 

Mickey shakes his head. "I don't know," he says slowly, and that is the truth. "I don't know. We got to – we got to figure it out as we go."

"We can still talk, though, right?" Ian asks hesitantly. "Maybe hang out sometime? As friends, you know? You think we could be friends?"

Mickey almost laughs, because if there's anything he and Ian are not, it's 'just friends.' But then he takes in Ian's expression, hopeful and earnest, reflecting all that tiredness that Mickey feels. Maybe this will be good for them, he thinks, finding a common ground that's not just fucking-or-fighting. Maybe this time they can actually get it right. 

"Yes," he says, "as friends." 

Ian smiles, happy and relieved, and Mickey turns back to look across the street, so he does not need think about what it feels like to kiss that mouth. 

Ian is quiet, and Mickey is too. They sit next to each other, close but not touching, until the sun disappears behind the roofs, and over the rattling of the L and the shouts of children down the street, they strain to hear each other breathe.


End file.
